Of the Hunt
by Fragorl
Summary: Set after BSR - what if no new threat had revealed itself to distract Damien from his origional goal - the weight of his earlier choice an impossible burden he turns down the only path to redemption - to destroy the evil he once allowed to live...


This is a piece of fanfiction only and no profit is being made. The characters are not my own but those belonging to the amazing Celia Friedman, from her Coldfire Trilogy. This is set after BSR and in the event that no further threat had been discovered to draw Damien's attention away from his earlier promise to destroy the Hunter. Reviews would be recieved with gratitude and welcome!

***

'_The time will come when even your perfect faith is challenged' _

Who had said those words? It had been so very long ago. A woman, he seemed to recall, and with the memory came the ghost of a wry smile. In Gangi, or someplace like it. Like so many of his romances it had burnt itself out - a passionate diversion that had faded all too quickly - intense desire that slid into indifference.

There was not enough in common, his work was too demanding…

He had recognized the signs even then, the tendency which as the years went on seemed more and more a pattern. She was gone now - lost behind the barriers of distance and the past.

Married perhaps - settled down and with children of her own.

Perhaps dead.

But gone from his life either way. There was nothing left of their dalliance but her words, spoken half in jest so many years ago, that and the strangely guilty realization that came of realizing that he could not actually remember her name.

_It was better that way_, he told himself, needing to believe it. _Better that there was no defenseless innocent whose life might be endangered by the path that he must take_. Trying not to think about the reason for this need; the certainty that if he did not act, more innocent lives would certainly be lost. Those innocents seemed far from him at this moment, shapeless unformed faces whose names he would never know. Unlike hers, which he had known once, but over time forgotten.

_You were right_, he thought to her, as he made his way towards the centre of the city, drawn as always by the pinnacle of his faith that resided there. Jaggonath Cathedral, radiant in the sunset. He smiled to remember how he had pictured it once, with details scavenged from the words of travelers, and extracts that were found in books. It was, he thought, every bit as beautiful.

Hesitant now, he hung back as the service ended, men and women flowing out, cool in their tranquility. They gathered effortlessly in groups and pairs and drifted casually apart, just as they had done on another night, when he could still claim ignorance of the city that they lived in.

Then the sight had seemed to resonate with meaning - it had filled him with a confidence in his faith, a pride that all they believed in could truly be accomplished. He just felt distant now, a faceless stranger who intruded on their worship. More than this, a traitor. A man who by his actions had put each of them at risk. It was because of him that they feared the night, although they did not know it. Because of him that some amongst their number would lose their lives to it.

And how could he join them, knowing that to be the case? How could he even pass amongst their number without feeling somehow a conspirator in those deaths? Surely, had they known, they would have thought of him as such.

So he waited, waited till even the slowest of the stragglers had passed, before he made his way to ascend the steps. And when a women cast him a single fearful glance, from the centre of a group in which she walked, he felt something deep within him tighten. She was dark, he had noticed, in that same half dispassionate way - while not a type that he had ever found appealing, she could certainly be called beautiful. In so far as danger had a type she fell within it. In so far as a victim might be guessed at or predicted, the Hunter's next choice might easily be her.

Resolve flared up within him then, a white hot presence in the part of him where unshaken faith had once resided.

-_Because there was something he could do_.

It had been with him since the journey through the canopy. A knowledge - insidious and undeniably fascinating. It had taken root as he climbed, a realization that at times had chilled him more than the snow through which he trampled. He had seen the Forest. He had travelled with its master. And in the doing so had gained an understanding of that corrupted figure that must surely be unequalled, at least by any man alive today. An insight that, if wielded correctly might even offer him the upper hand, should the time come to fight against him.

As surely it must.

'_I never doubted that you'd try'_

So many attempts by men to destroy the evil of the Forest. So many failures - each one heralded by blood and death and violence. But no more than that. Never a revenge so complete, a wave of death so absolute, that the people living in its shadow be entirely wiped out. -Though such an act was surely not beyond its power.

Retribution yes, swift and merciless. But always proportionate, always measured, always - precise.

It was as if even when lost in fury, the creature called the Hunter retained a level of control that was as uncharacteristic for a mere demon as it was your average man.

And they had failed to see that - all those campaigners, and mercenaries, and tortured kin, who had made the choice to throw their lives against the Hunter. Never realizing, never seeing, until it was too late, at the very end, that the enemy they faced was far different from that; different from anything they had ever thought of.

They had prepared themselves to fight a demon - and had failed - without exception.

What if they had arrayed themselves instead to fight against a man? A brilliant man, a terrible man, but a man all the same, who for all his demonic trappings had failed to give up an essentially human soul. Would it have made a difference? Could it have?

He thought perhaps it could.

'_So you will still be coming after me when you leave the rhaklands. I regret that, priest. There's a quality in you that I would hate to destroy. A certain…recklessness?' _

No, he would not make their mistake, however tempting it might be to see their enemy as something less than human, he could not indulge in so dangerous an illusion. To do so would be to court their fates, to bind himself to these already failed attempts…

-And if history of those failed attempts had taught him one thing, it was that he would find the experience of this decidedly unpleasant.

If there was one constant where the Hunter was concerned it would be that… However dubious a victory might seem, involving the death of one who had been an ally - failure would be infinitely worse.

_But you'll manage it anyway' _

'_If you try to kill me? With relish'_

Could it be achieved, such a victory? Was it even possible?

… _An adept can be killed by a knife in the heart, just as any other man_. The words of the Hunter, the words of Gerald Tarrant.

And he would see it done- he vowed it.

Strengthened by this new resolve he began to mount the steps.

_I will kill you_, he thought, his eyes narrowed as he tried as so many times before to sense the link between them. -As like before he felt his mind glance against a barrier and slide effortlessly away.

_A boy in Kale, lying still against a bed - the broken remnants of his consciousness locked away behind a barrier so skillfully constructed that for all his tries he could not make it yield. _

He shook his head to clear the image. If the other man had heard the thought, he gave no response to it. Perhaps he was asleep, though privately, Damien doubted that. Now that he had doubtless returned to the Forest there was really no need for him to hide himself away, a necessity while they had travelled.

In that place, where the trees themselves responded to his whim, and the walls of a black keep stood tall and imposing, he need fear nothing so mundane as the touch of sunlight.

- If he was indeed residing there, although the alterative possibilities were none he cared to think about. The idea that, even as he approached the Cathedral, and within it the Patriarch, an elegantly dressed young man might also walk the night, his discerning eyes narrowed in the search for beauty, was almost more than he could bear to think on. That it would happen anyway, if not now than in a week, or a month, or a year, that was better left unthought-of.

The door to the Cathedral was not yet locked, and it swung open with the pressure of his touch. Cautiously, he stepped within. It was just as he remembered, from the short time that he had spent there.

Not changed, he realized: not at all. The change had been in him.

'Can I help you?' He noticed the boy only when he heard his voice. Slenderly built, and simply dressed he had faded very easily into the background. Inwardly he cursed himself for not paying better attention. A dangerous mistake, for one whose earlier thoughts had been of such an ambitious undertaking. The enemy he faced would make no such errors, and the nature of his Sight would give him a unique perception on any risk that might approach him.

'I will require an audience with the Patriarch,' the words had sounded like another's even as they left his mouth. '-He will see me,' in answer to the boy's hesitant objection. 'Tell him Damien Vryce - tell him _Reverend_ Damien Vryce is here to speak with him.'

He watched the boy hurry off. Remembering previous interviews, he knew the chances of the holy father seeing him at once were slim. Stepping between highly raised pillars, he approached the alter.

_My God _he offered, the words of familiar prayers soft against his lips_. You in Your wisdom have given me this chance. This insight into the workings of evil, that might in time permit evil to be conquered. The temptations under whose influence, even your highest prophet fell. Give me the strength to withstand them, oh Lord, that I can do your work in the way that you intended. Give me the strength to finish the task that you have chosen for me. Even if that task is not always to my liking._

'He will see you now.'

The boy led him through the labyrinth of passages, not in the direction of the study in which the Patriarch had awaited him before, but another way, one that he had never seen before. He followed, trying not to think. If he was frightened of a confrontation with the Hunter, that fear was nothing before that of coming face to face with his employer. And when he caught the initiate's envious glance at the sword he carried, permitted in a sanctuary by the virtue of his order, he was forced to stifle a laugh.

Yes, he though, I might be permitted to wear a sword, where other men are automatically forbidden. - And when your Patriarch is through with me perhaps you can be the judge of just how much good that weapon did me…

The door he was led to was a simple one, and this in itself was enough to put him on edge. The Patriarch had chosen to meet with him in his study when he had first arrived, an unwelcome visitor from a neighboring autarchy, one whose very presence was perceived as a challenge to the purity of their church.

_A drop of blood, glistens darkly in the near darkness of a cave_.

What manner of room would he have selected to meet with him now?

_He could not know_, Damien found himself reminding himself as he hesitated before the door. _There is no possible way he could have known_… At least not by any natural occurrence.

But in the case of the Patriarch he had come to understand, natural occurrences had a way of shaping themselves in accordance with the other's will.

_And if he knew, what then? What if he has somehow found out?_

_Then if nothing else, this meeting should be interesting…_

It was with a rising of dread that he brought his fist against the alter oak wood, rapping it twice. He barely had to wait a second for the reply. His heart suddenly rising to his mouth, Damien entered.

Vision of the past. A man whose presence had faded from his memories, so that to confront the real thing was like being submerged in icy water. Power, undeniable, surrounding him, blanketing him.

Such power, not even consciously wielded.

An adepts power, bound by the refusal of the individual to accept its existence.

Stepping forwards, inclining his head, Damien Vryce forced himself to meet those cold piercing eyes and stand his ground. He would explain to him, in any way he could, the events of the last few months.

Of the masters defeat, of Ciani's survival, and her subsequent refusal to return once more to human lands. And then he will speak of that other need, the one that must serve in the manner of penance. Here in the Cathedral of Jaggonath, arguably the heart of his faith in the civilized world he would express his intention to find and kill the demon so many called the Hunter.


End file.
